Just Close Your Eyes
by Dianne
Summary: Ten perfect fingers. Ten perfect toes. Two eyes to see, two ears to hear, just close your eyes you poor, sweet dear. Death of an OC. RIP Harambe the gorilla, you should not have been killed, surely you are in a better place, gentle boy


No one bothered to check for vital signs on the so-called attacker. As long as he was out of commission, unable to get up, his life could bleed out onto the pavement, drank in by the weeds in the cracks and sampled by the ants that happened by who were also beginning to torment his dying flesh unfettered.

People gawked from above, taking pictures, gossiping about poor parenting, acting shocked, while in reality, to some of the hidden, twisted souls among them, this gruesome scene was better than watching Phil Donahue or a soap opera. A handful of people, mostly children, cried. The attacker's family watched, agitated, sobbing, held back from comforting the teenager whose eyes found and fixed on them, silently pleading for help and wondering what he'd done so wrong.

The victim had been loaded into the ambulance, escorted by squad sixteen. Vince Howard spoke to the boy's parents whose attention he could not hold due to the unruly brood of the rest of their children.

John Gage crept over to the attacker, who was now being guarded by a man with a rifle.

"Don't touch him," the man growled. "Don't need some other asshat getting hurt and trying to sue us."

Gage ignored the man, glancing at Cap to make sure he was busy with directing cleanup of the scene. Mike pulled Big Red back, Lopez walking within his sight as he backed up to avoid hitting another seemingly parentless kid wandering around without supervision.

"He deserves some care," Gage said, crouching next to the male. Brown eyes met brown eyes, intelligence telling both of them that this would be his last day on earth.

"Well don't blame me if he lops your face off," the man said indifferently. "The only reason I haven't put another bullet in 'im is because all these people are standin' around.

"One bullet did the job," Gage ground out, vowing that it would be his last words to the crass jerk with the gun.

Rough hands came up to grasp John's. The paramedic swallowed and took them in his own, holding them against the teen's chest, speaking softly as he flicked off the ants who were biting the not yet dead flesh. A gurgling sound emanated from deep within the teen's chest and a trickle of blood dripped from his chin. John wiped it away, pouring a bit of cool water on a cloth.

"Are you stupid, he's insane, he'll bite your hands off!" the man hissed for John's ears only.

"He could," John said reasonably.

John continued to swipe gently over the teen's forehead. He could feel his head leaning in to the gentle touch as the beautiful, soulful, brown eyes closed.

"That's right, just close your eyes. It's going to be okay now. You can go. You did nothing wrong. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time … for your whole life."

The paramedic cleared his throat, eyes glassy, thinking it was almost over but cruel fate had other ideas. The teen's eyes shot open in pain, fear gripping the prone figure as well as the man who hovered over him whose hand was being squeezed in desperation. But he would not pull it away. He was grounded to a faltering life that needed him until it went to the spirit world.

"Step away from him now," the man with the gun ordered. Gage ignored him. He didn't care that he was breeching protocol – that was if there was a protocol for this sort of thing, and he hoped to hell not.

"Ga-age, what are you doing?" Cap asked, striding up, looking worn and troubled.

"Cap, he's dying. He shouldn't be alone, and they won't let his family be with him. It's not right."

"I know, John. It's a tragedy all around. Dr. Philpot who normally works here is stuck in traffic and can't come right now. "This isn't part of your job."

"All due respect, Cap," John said sincerely … and his captain believed him, "I'll face the music later, even if it's the bagpipes, piping the end of my career."

"You understand that I'm telling you to get back to work, that it's an order?"

"Yes, sir. Thank you," John said quietly, still stroking the dark hair back from the teen's large brow and feeling the thrum of the slowing heartbeat.

Cap's adam's apple bobbed as another gurgle and a gasp of hard-fought-for air was taken in past the teen's blood-soaked lips. The teen struggled to slither toward the helpless faces of his family but the business end of the rifle drove into his already struggling chest. For the first time in his career, John Gage prayed that his patient would die.

Cap didn't utter another word. He made his way back to his men and resumed giving orders. Gage saw Cap lean down to tie his boots, something that never would have happened on other days. Cap's laces wouldn't dare to disobey. An epidemic of untied laces ensued and soon heads were pressed together football style.

Chet approached moments later with the squad's drug box. He placed it down beside his shift mate. "Just about done here, Gage. What a mess."

"Did you tell Gage we're about ready to get going?" Desoto asked, approaching Chet.

"Not soon enough," the rifle man groused under his breath.

Chet's blood boiled. He swallowed his revulsion.

"Say, that's a Hunter's Deluxe, haven't seen on of these babies since I went crocodile hunting."

"Good eye. Been waitin' to use this puppy since I started here. Hangin' on a wall for ten years. Why have it if you can't use it?"

"Mind if I see it for a minute?" Chet asked.

The man glanced at the quieting teenager on the ground.

"Sure, for a minute, keep it pointed down, it's loaded."

Chet gagged back the bile that threatened to rise in his throat. This was the gun that shot this teenager.

"Good balance," Chet invented, staring at the polished wooden maker's mark.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Gage was a modern man. He had lived on a reservation. He'd worked rodeos, knew that nature and people could be cruel, but there was nothing natural about this situation. His knowledge of his past, his ancestors who respected all life and believed that all souls lived on and deserved prayer, made his stance on this day irrevocable.

John bowed his head in disguise of merely looking down on the suffering soul beneath his hands. He was unaware that his lips were moving as he said a prayer for the teen's soul to go on in peace and meet with his forefathers on the other side. The almost silent but reverent _Amen_ from his partner, Roy, startled the dark haired paramedic.

"Bagpipes it is, Junior," Roy said quietly, palming a syringe.

John's glassy eyes met Roy's.

"I'll do it," Roy said quietly as Chet loudly appreciated the rifle enthusiast. "I think the boy is really comforted by your touch.

John nodded, wanting to look away but knowing that the teen could panic and give them away if he didn't keep him calm.

With difficulty, Roy found a vein.

"Shhhh, it's going to be okay. Just close your eyes. See your friends. Feel the wind. Hear the leaves rustle in the trees, so high you can see your real house from there," John choked out the half-hearted joke, trying to sound cheerful. The teen didn't speak his language but the tone was universal and besides, dumb, jokes were the paramedic's coping mechanism.

"He's a big boy," Roy whispered, drawing out the syringe, sweating in relief that the teen hadn't gone ballistic with panic. I gave 'im the same dose Brackett recommended for that huge wrester fella we treated a year back.

The teen's face slackened into relaxed compliance that this was it, even as the paramedic holding his hands reassured him that this was not the end, that soon, he would soar among the vines, ones that had texture, taste, scent, not the plastic kind that hurt his teeth and poisoned his stomach until he learned he could not eat them when he was a baby after his mother was taken away from him and could no longer teach him, love him, hold him as he had longed.

"I'm so sorry we did this to you," John whispered.

Roy pocketed the glass bottle, capping the needle. "I think the morphine's starting to take effect. "Once his pain settles down, he should be able to let go," he said sadly. His kids knew this teenager. How was he going to explain that he'd been gunned down in cold blood by the very people who were supposed to care for him?"

The teenager's eyes closed longer in between blinks, his fingers curled in relaxation before he released his vice-like grip on the paramedic's hand long enough to stare in wonder at the similarities between them. Five fingers with amazing dexterity to nurture and love, two eyes to take in the beauty and horrors of the world, legs that carried them to pace in worry about their loved ones lost, play and run with joy, or fold at the ankles after a long day's work, ears that listened to the calls of family, searched for danger and enjoyed the music of the bird's chirp or the serenade of the cicadas _. The same._

And then Gage was the only one hanging on, the long fingers once entwined in his, slipping so that his hand rested peacefully upon his chest. It was over. It was the beginning.

Cue the bagpipes. But it was worth it.

… _Just close your eyes._

XXXXXXXXXXX

A/N

So ticked off right now! This story is inspired by the incident with the gorilla at the Cincinnati Zoo but is not the reality of the situation of which this writer has no fact-based knowledge. Any similarity to persons living or dead are not intended or factual. In other words, this is a work of fiction but it reflects how I feel about human apathy in the face of animal suffering and child neglect and abuse.

Rest in Peace

Marius, the baby giraffe murdered at the Copenhagen Zoo in 2014 in front of children as a "learning moment."

Cecil, the lion who was murdered by an evil human poacher who apparently can't be a man unless he kills in 2015 in Africa

Harambe, the 17 year old gorilla who was murdered in Cincinnati by human carelessness on an epic level in 2016


End file.
